Call
by Gonzo Illiterate
Summary: Dean is not one to wait. So, naturally, when the phone rang three hours after he had left Sam at that basement, he was more then a little irritated. Drabble, CD


**A/N I'm going for a more minimalistic style. Enjoy. Review?**

Dean is not one to wait.

So, naturally, when the phone rang three hours after he had left Sam at that basement, he was more then a little irritated.

"Where the hell are you?" he snapped through a mouthful of waffles. The waitress eyed him oddly.

There was a shaky breath on the other end. "Dean?"

"Where the _fuck _are you, Sam?" Dean repeated. "I've been waiting here for hours."

"Dean." It was more of a moan, now, deep and heavy like the other man was speaking through water. "Spirit...it wasn't a spirit...ghost or nothing..."

Dean rubbed his forehead, unable to rid himself of a nagging annoyance. He had ran a bill of nearly fifty dollars on coffee and waffles, since the establishment he was now seated at only accommodated paying customers. "Sam, what the _hell _are you talking about?"

"The spirit...we...couldn't find the...bones." His voice was thin, strained, and Dean could hear a burst of racking coughs.

"Sam?" Dean whispered, looking out the window at the row of wagons and minivans spotting the parking lot. "Where a_re _you?"

"Mm...the..that basement..." He coughed again. "My back hurts like a _bitch."_

"Alright, okay." Dean stood up and slapped three twenties on the table, not stopping as the waitress called for him. "Okay, I'm on my way. Can you tell me---shit, sorry--" he crashed into a middle aged couple making their way towards a booth in the corner--"Can you tell me what happened?"

"Yeah...there was...it wasn't a ghost, Dean," Sam said, his voice slow and shaking. "Just a...regular guy...really quiet, too. Fuck, didn't even..." He coughed. "...hear him. _Shit."_

"Keep talkin', Sammy, I'm almost there." He wasn't, actually. He was a half a mile away, and a truck was moving at a slugish pace in front of the Impala. Dean honked the horn.

"...'cause I was...standing on the stairwell...gonna walk up to...meet you." He made a sound like a laugh, but it came out like a groan. "Jesus, I'm late, aren't I?"

"Shut up, Sammy. Keep talkin'."

Sam mumbled, "...oxymoron."

Dean let himself laugh, only slightly, as he sped down the freeway. "_You're _a moron. Tell me what happened again?"

He heard a rustling on the other end. "I was...on the stairwell...and the guy...didn't see him, but he came up and...shoved something...in my back..." Sam hissed. "It fucking _hurts, _man."

Panicking, Dean spoke loudly. "_I know if hurts. _Just keep talking." Was that good, if it hurt? Better then if he didn't feel anything. Yeah, he reasoned. That's good.

Much to his dismay, Dean heard sirens wail after him.

"I, uh...fell over the railing...and...shit, Dean."

"Help's coming. I'm coming." At least, Dean thought, the cops could call an ambulance or something.

Dean heard the slow, laborious breaths of his brother static over the phone, getting slower and slower and slower.

"It wasn't the ghost, Dean," Sam muttered. "Just a regular guy."

"You said that, bitch," Dean told him. "Stay with me."

"Is that sirens?" Sam made that sort-of laughing sound again.

"Yeah," Dean said, "I swiped a Ferrari. Goes faster."

"Typical."

Dean didn't like how slow Sam's breathing was.

"Hey, Dean," Sam whispered, his voice fading with every syllable. "I'm just gonna...close my eyes...for a sec."

"_No," _Dean shouted, "keep your _fucking _eyes open for _five minutes. _Wait til I get there, then you can sleep as long as you fucking want, Sam. Just _wait."_

Sam didn't say anything.

"Sam?" Dean was screaming now. "Sam? _Goddamnit, Sam!"_

The warehouse came into view. Dean slammed his foot into the break, the phone pressed firmly to his ear as he hauled himself out of the car and ran towards the building. He heard the police fumbling from their cruisers, the _patpatpat _of their shoes hitting the asphalt lost to his pounding ears. A lone whisper was heard from the phone. And then nothing.

He ran through the empty, cemented room, down the metal stairwell, down all three flights, down down _down. _

He finally reached the last level, the one with the platform looking down on the basement. He saw blood drops on the floor.

And he saw a body on the dark ground beneath.

"Hey!" an officer shouted, and he felt chubby hands close around his forarm. He pushed them off roughly, starting down the last of the stairs. More hands fell on him. More shouts.

"_Sam!" _he cried, down at the still body with the phone hanging limply from his hand. His legs were twisted at odd angles, and blood welled around him like an enlarged shadow. "_SAM!"_

"Hey," one of the cops said, "there's a guy down there."

Officers flooded down, surrounding his brother--_his brother--_being where he should be, doing what he should do.

And, as his brother screamed his anguished screams, meekly fighting the police officers as tears burned his cheeks and his brother continued to be still, he knew

Even as the blair of ambulences drifted through the air, he knew it was too late.

Like he himself knew, knew what no one else ever would, what Sam Winchester's final words were.

_"...'m sorry, D'n..."_


End file.
